Reckoning
by the ticking clock
Summary: "I forgive you Will," he says, the words sweet and heavy on his tongue, "Can you forgive me?" Drabble. Inspired by the new Season 3 trailer.


**Inspired by the new Season 3 trailer. Forgive any typos/mistakes, my hands were shaking with excitement the entire time I was writing this. **

"I forgive you Will," he says, the words are sweet and heavy on his tongue. "Can you forgive me?"

It is such an honest, raw question. Once again, he is letting Will know him, _see _him. He is pulling off the mask. The Ripper is here now-in all his blood-soaked, rough glory. He is not Hannibal Lecter the psychiatrist. He is not the opera-attending, sophisticated man society knows. No, he is open and bleeding and feral. Adrenaline pulses like wildfire through his veins, the blood dripping from his nose tastes like salt and iron and strength. His heart is beating wildly in his chest-all sharp contractions and stuttering rhythm.

_No more hiding. _

Will Graham is prone on the floor in front of him. His breaths are harsh and erratic, hitching in his throat like sobs. His face is a sickly pallor, shining with sweat and splattered with flecks of blood. In the dim kitchen light, Hannibal can see crusted tear tracks on the other man's cheeks.

He had once observed that Will Graham was not fond of eye contact, but that Will, the one he met trembling in Jack Crawford's office, all shattered nerves and shaking hands and a mind that is so brilliant it aches, is not the Will Graham in front of him. This Will has killed. This Will has tasted the fire of killing. He has enjoyed it. He has consumed human flesh, he has been so very, very polite.

Not tonight.

Hannibal keeps his words steady and calm. Will is in shock, he reminds himself. He's bleeding out. He's terrified and furious and traumatized. "Can you forgive me?" Hannibal asks again.

Will slowly lifts his head, and his eyes are clear and sane and screaming.

His message is clear.

Will's eyes haunt Hannibal's dreams for many days. In Hannibal's dreams, Will sometimes cries blood while he screams.

* * *

><p>Will still dreams about Abigail.<p>

He does not think he will ever stop dreaming of her, not when she had been so cruelly ripped from him not once, but twice.

In his dreams, they wade into the river, hand and hand. Abigail is young and whole and smiling, her eyes reflecting the streams blue, the scar on her neck a reminder that Will saved her life once.

Just once.

"Why do you like fishing so much?" she asks.

Will shrugs, casting out. "It feels...natural. Meditative."

"Does killing feel that way?" her voice changes pitch somehow-deeper, foreign, furious.

In the dream, Will's vision mists red. He stumbled against slippery rocks and crashes down into the stream. "No," he gasps, "killing feels hollow."

The river around him is thick and sticky under his hands. He realizes with a kind of numb terror that it is blood.

Will can never dream of Abigail again without blood being involved somehow.

Perhaps it is his punishment, for letting her slip through his fingers.

* * *

><p>Hannibal knows Will is there-he can hear the familiar pattern of his friend's breaths, the shaking hitch, the steady exhale-but he stays still, back pressed against the cool stone wall.<p>

He is not ready to confront him yet. Will will be all raw, calculated fury, gun raised to kill, hands steady. Will Graham has evolved since Hannibal had last seen him, the doctor just isn't sure in what way yet. A small part of him swells with pride at Will-on his feet after such staggering pain and loss, all confidant strides and heavy footfalls and steady breathing.

Abruptly, Will stops moving, and Hannibal tenses. The other man is not close enough to him, a few turns away, but there is a tension in the air that Hannibal can taste-sparking nerves, beating hearts, hushed anticipation. They are both waiting for Will's words.

"Hannibal!" His name, after so long, spoken in Will's voice sends a slight thrill of excitement through him. _Hannibal. _Not "Dr. Lecter"

_Hannibal. _

Will _sees _him.

There is a quiet pause, and perhaps quiet is not the right word, for it is a pregnant pause stretched tight with tension and longing and bated breath.

Will's next words are soft, "I forgive you."

Hannibal remembers in a flash, Will's broken body cradled against his chest, blood pooling on the floor, Will's screaming eyes, Hannibal's gentle question, "Can you forgive me?"

Something settles in his stomach, hard and clenching. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and relaxes the stress binding his shoulder blades. He answers Will's question with silence and turns away.

Will will understand.


End file.
